There are no poems in me today.
The weary world is calling, "sleep,"
and I, having followed the lure,
found only a siren too tired to keep me.
There are no poems in me afterward.
When after wondering what this feeling this,
I never quite complete the thought,
and lose the sense of why it was
I ever felt it in the first place.
There were no poems in me then.
Because what I wrote was hardly more than words.
When you try too hard to force meaning from desire,
a certain poverty overcomes you,
which you promise to recover some future day
only to marvel at how distant the "future" stays.
Finally, I haven't a poem for you today.
Only these words that search always,
and remind me to think,
and keep me safe,
when the arms of the weary world surround me.
